


catch me in the cracks between your crooked smile

by illuminatedcities



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, mentions of abuse, mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: Stiles learns about control. Derek learns how to let go of it.





	

_**One.** _

**control;** verb. _archaic_ : to check or verify by evidence or experiments.

Maybe stories should get told from the beginning, but Stiles has no idea where to even _start_ with this. 

The beginning might have been the way Derek grabbed the fabric of Stiles’ shirt and pushed him hard against the wall, eyes blazing. The air rushed out of Stiles’ lungs and Derek was all up in his space like he lived there. The impact didn’t hurt, and Derek’s fists were pressing against his chest and their faces were so close, and all that Stiles could think was ‘ _yes’._

The beginning might have been any one of the times Derek put himself between Stiles and whatever monster of the week they were fighting. The beginning might have been the way he didn’t flinch when Stiles put a hand on his shoulder in some ridiculous, counterintuitive instinct to comfort him. Derek swayed into the touch for a split second before catching himself, and then averted his eyes like he was guarding a secret. Maybe, Stiles thinks, he was. Maybe all the best and the worst things are secrets.

Maybe some things are inevitable, no matter where you start. 

\--

“So how about the next time, you could try running awayfrom danger instead of sprinting towards it like a suicidal lemming,” Derek says, managing to sound like he’s lecturing his pack even when there’s nobody but Stiles in the room. Stiles isn’t even pack, technically. 

Stiles crosses his arms in front of his chest and huffs out a laugh, because _really._ “Oh, so it’s fine if you guys take stupid risks and get into fights with Beacon Hills’ seedy supernatural underbelly, but if _I_ tag along, I should better hide in a ditch somewhere and wait for the big bad wolves to save the day.”

“You don’t have any powers, Stiles,” Derek says, like Stiles keeps forgetting. His voice is flat, and he pinches the bridge of his nose like he has a headache. “It’s dangerous for you to get caught in the crossfire.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Stiles asks, trying to keep the hysteria out of his voice. “You think I _want_ to be caught up in some epic battle to prevent the apocalypse every other week because honestly, I’d gladly pass. I have _homework_ , a few seasons of Breaking Bad to catch up on, I have stuff I could be doing. Maybe I could actually get a private life at some point– “ 

“You could have gotten hurt today!” Derek growls. He actually growls, in a not-human way. Then he turns around and braces himself on the desk, every single line of his body radiating tension. 

Stiles stares at him for a moment. He suddenly realizes that they are having a completely different kind of conversation than he thought they were having. “Are you _worried_ about me?” Stiles asks, because woah, he thought the alligator people they fought on Wednesday were the craziest thing that happened to him this week. 

For a moment Stiles is sure that Derek is going to growl some more and storm off, or transform himself into a brooding rock with great abs and not speak again for a month. What happens is that something in Derek’s posture loosens, like he suddenly doesn’t have the energy to stay so incredibly tense anymore, and then he turns his face away from Stiles and says: “I’m just really tired of watching people get hurt and being unable to stop it.”

The same borderline suicidal instinct that made Stiles put a hand on Derek’s shoulder that one time is apparently in charge again, because Stiles steps closer and clears his throat. “People?”

“ _People,_ ” Derek says. He straightens up and turns his head so he can look at Stiles, and there is some wild, desperate expression in his eyes that Stiles has never seen before. “People that I care about.”

Stiles couldn’t have been more stunned if someone threw a smoke grenade into the room. He opens his mouth, but his tongue is dry and useless in his mouth, and no sound comes out. Derek looks horrified at himself, probably because he just said more words in a row to Stiles during the last few minutes than in the last month combined. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Derek says, the same moment Stiles says: “You care about me!”

Derek’s long-suffering expression should be photographed and shown in a museum somewhere, in Stiles’ opinion. “That’s not what I said,” Derek says.

“Well, it was heavily implied at least,” Stiles says. He’s so giddy with the endorphin rush that it takes him a moment to catch on to the fact that Derek’s expression is a shade of miserable Stiles has never seen before. “Wait. You– oh my god, you _know_ , don’t you? Please tell me that you know.”

“Know what?” Derek asks, tense and weary like he expects something bad to happen all the time, and given what Stiles knows about his biography so far, probably with good reason. Stiles looks at Derek’s expression, weary and guarded and like Stiles’ answer might actually hurt him. Oh wow, Scott is losing his _Most Oblivious Person on the Planet_ award to Derek freaking Hale. 

Probably Stiles should lead with “I’ve had a crush on you for years and I’m pretty sure I might be actually in love with you”, but in his defense, he has _horrible_ impulse control. 

Stiles will never have a clear memory of how it felt to kiss Derek Hale for the first time because when he leans in close to touch his mouth to Derek’s it's all wrapped up in the rush of heat to his face and the blood roaring in his ears like an airplane engine. Stiles is pretty sure he can feel electrical signals exploding over every single synapse of his grey matter like a thunderstorm. Stiles vaguely remembers to pull back a little to give Derek a moment to potentially shove him away, just in case Stiles screwed up monumentally and read him wrong. Instead of backtracking, Derek makes an unhappy noise and pulls Stiles closer like not kissing him is physically painful. 

“You _like_ me,” Stiles says when they part to do things like actually breathing. He feels like he’s Indiana Jones and discovering some kind of really awesome ancient cave. “You are worried about my safety.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, and leans in to nibble at Stiles’ jaw in a way that makes Stiles feel a little like prey. 

Stiles gets a hand into Derek’s hair and scratches his fingernails over Derek’s scalp, and Derek honest-to-god _moans_ in pleasure. Awesome. 

“Oh god, I’ve been thinking about this so much,” Stiles blurts out when he gets his hands under Derek’s shirt. The next thing he knows is that he’s being _picked up and carried_ with his thighs wrapped around Derek's waist, and Stiles want to laugh at the unlikeliness of it, the romance novel cliché. Derek's arm on his back holds him up effortlessly, and his mouth is warm against Stiles' neck.

"Fuck," Stiles says breathlessly, sprawled on his back with Derek straddling him, licking and nipping at Stiles' throat like it's going out of style.

"That's the plan," Derek says, with that slow, soft smile that feels like the moment you get pushed into your airplane seat during takeoff, a twist of vertigo and excitement all at once. Derek leans back to pull his shirt over his head, and wow, Stiles is going to have a _stroke_ if they keep going at this rate. Stiles is so hard it's painful, and he feels all jittery and keyed up with excitement. There's no way that enough oxygen is getting into his brain; he's probably losing IQ points by the minute.

Derek leans down to kiss him and Stiles runs his hands over the bare skin of Derek's back. He trails his fingertips over the curve of Derek’s spine, a geometric arc like the outline of an elegant instrument. The way Derek's muscles shift under the skin drives Stiles a little crazy, and it's a mad rush to feel that strength under his hands, to know that Derek could break him in half easily if he wanted to. Okay, maybe that's not a _sane_ thing to be turned on about, the idea that the guy you're making out with could rip out your throat with his teeth easily and has threatened to do so multiple times, but Stiles' libido isn't really about sensible life choices right now.

When Stiles imagined this, it was much less groping and kissing and nuzzling, which apparently Derek is _really into._ Something else that Derek Hale is really into is putting his mouth and hands on every bit of exposed skin. This includes sucking on Stiles' earlobe and pushing his hands under Stiles' shirt to run his fingers over the warm skin of his belly, his thumbs following the lines of Stiles' hipbones. What is even more incredible is the way Derek reacts to Stiles touching _him,_ arching greedily into Stiles' touch and making soft, pleased noises when Stiles slides a hand into Derek's hair. Stiles pets him a little awkwardly, and Derek's whole body melts against him like Stiles cut some invisible bit of string holding him up. He's acting like he's afraid that Stiles will stop touching him, which is of course absolutely insane. Now that Stiles has actual, real-life knowledge of how good it feels to touch Derek, he's not sure how he's supposed to stop, ever.

"What do you like?" Derek asks, mouthing at Stiles' jaw. He moves his hips a fraction and Stiles groans in helpless arousal, thrusting up involuntarily.

Derek is hard in his jeans, Stiles can _feel_ it when they rub against each other. _This is it, this is how it happens,_ Stiles thinks a little hysterically, _you're about to have sex with Derek Hale._ He jerked off to this imaginary scenario countless times but now it's actually happening, and Stiles would take a moment to thank whatever cosmic power or deity made this happen, if he wasn't so busy getting spectacularly laid.

"I've never done this before but I think about sex every day for approximately eight to fifteen hours so it's probably a safe bet to say that I like everything," Stiles babbles. "Honestly, I'm not qualified to make any executive decisions right now apart from 'yes' and 'right now' and 'more'."

Derek hums against his skin and moves his hips a little more because he's an _asshole,_ and Stiles gasps and clutches at his shoulders and only ruts against him a little.

"I could start by sucking your cock," Derek says, low and filthy against his ear, and Stiles whines and promptly comes in his pants.

_Christ._ Even without werewolf superpower-smell Derek will probably be able to tell what's going on. The blood rushes into Stiles' face, and his whole body goes pleasantly limp. He makes a valiant attempt to turn his head and smother himself with the pillow.

_“Hey,_ ” Derek says in a weirdly soft voice and stops nuzzling Stiles' jaw, which is a shame. He puts two fingers under Stiles' chin and turns his head so he can look at him, his face full of concern as if he thinks Stiles is freaking out or something and didn't just embarrass himself beyond belief.

“I realize this isn't going to go down without some sort of premature ejaculation pun, I'm just saying that you better make it a good one so I didn't just make myself look like an idiot for no reason,” Stiles groans.

Watching the realization creep onto Derek's face is surprisingly delightful, mostly because his ears turn kind of red and he ducks his head a little like _he's_ the one who's embarrassed.

“Oh come on, like it takes that much to get a teenager excited, get over yourself already,” Stiles says, shoving at Derek's shoulder, but Derek just grins smugly and slides down Stiles' body, popping the button on his jeans.

Derek peels him out of his clothes, which feel wet and kind of sticky over his crotch, and Stiles lifts his hips to help. Then Derek leans down to put his mouth on Stiles and lick him clean, and Stiles curses and grabs fistfuls of the sheets. “You're going to actually kill me,” Stiles tells the ceiling.

Derek chuckles against his thigh, a warm, soft sound. Stiles didn't realize Derek could _chuckle._

Stiles is still kind of sensitive after getting off, so while he would usually be extremely enthusiastic about having Derek's mouth anywhere near his dick he ends up shoving Derek off after a few more minutes and climbs all over him instead.

“Bossy,” Derek says, stretching out beneath him in a needlessly pornographic way. “I like it.”

Stiles is a little distracted by the way Derek's abs feel under his hands, but he recovers quickly and goes to work on Derek's belt instead. “Stop talking and take off your pants,” he says.

Derek wiggles his eyebrows like the huge dork he is and shimmies out of the rest of his clothes in a way that makes Stiles' mouth turn incredibly dry. Stiles has fantasized about this bit, too, obviously, and while he really wants to get Derek's dick in his mouth, Derek seemed to like the whole foreplay thing earlier a lot, so it's probably a good idea to take his time. Stiles leans down to kiss a line from Derek's chest to his belly button. He feels bold and licks a broad stripe over the firm muscle of Derek's abdomen, and suddenly Derek's whole body tenses underneath him.

Derek doesn't say anything, so Stiles sits up, trying to get a look at Derek's face. “Hey, are you– did I do something– “

“It's fine,” Derek says, too quickly. There is a tension in the line of his shoulders that wasn't there before, and his face is carefully blank. “It's nothing you did, I just. Had to think of someone else.” He winces. “I don't mean– It just reminded me of something I don't like to think about,” he says.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, then realizes that he has no idea what he's supposed to say. _Sorry for accidentally making you remember something unpleasant_ , probably, except that's a pretty lame thing to say, as well as _I know you got hurt before and it makes me kind of mad_.

Stiles climbs over Derek's leg and lies down next to him. Derek's breathing is suspiciously calm, like he's making an effort to keep it that way, and he isn't looking at Stiles.

“You can tell me,” Stiles says. A muscle in Derek's jaw tenses, and Stiles actually considers hitting himself in the face with a blunt object, because wow, way to screw up that conversation. “I don't mean about your– thing you clearly don't want to talk about,” he says, trying for damage control. “You don't have to talk about that ever, if you don't want to. I meant that if I do something you don't like, you can tell me. You don't have to pretend that it's fine or give a reason or whatever, just. Tell me.”

Derek turns his head, and there's something so open and vulnerable in his eyes that it's nearly painful to look at. “Come here,” he says, and puts his arm around Stiles, and Stiles rolls half on top of him and buries his face against Derek's throat, lets Derek run his fingers through his hair.

\--

_**Two.** _

**control;** verb: to have power over, to rule.

“You don't have to do this, you know,” Derek says, even though his pupils are blown and he looks down at where Stiles is kneeling in front of him like he's having some kind of transcendental out-of-body experience.

“Duh, I really, _really_ want to, in case that wasn't clear,” Stiles says, palming Derek's erection through his boxer briefs.

Derek's eyes go half-lidded at that, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. “Yeah?” He asks, voice rough, like he's still not sure if Stiles is joking.

“Stop talking so much, it's unnerving,” Stiles says. He pulls down Derek's boxers to get at his cock and then proceeds to give him a sloppy, enthusiastic blow job. Derek spreads his legs and makes little growly sounds low in his throat that are basically the hottest thing ever.

Stiles tries his best to make it good even though his lack of experience probably shows _a lot_. He goes too fast at first and makes himself cough and gag, and Derek's hand comes up to rest on top of his head, soothing. “Easy,” Derek says.

To give himself a moment to recover, Stiles moves back and presses his tongue just under the head of Derek's cock until Derek gasps above him, his hips twitching a little like he's making an effort not to thrust up into Stiles' mouth.

Stiles is more mindful of his gag reflex, after, but still _determined_. He has every intention of becoming really, really good at this. He takes Derek's cock as deep as he can, spit dripping out of his mouth and his eyes watering a little. Derek doesn't really talk, he just makes these soft, breathy noises and looks down at Stiles in amazement, so it's a bit of a surprise when Derek's hand slides down to his face, his thumb stroking Stiles' jaw, and he says: “Hey, slow down a little, okay?”

Stiles pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His own cock is straining against the fabric of his pants, and when he speaks, his voice sounds hoarse. “I'm not doing so great, huh,” Stiles says, trying for a self-deprecating smirk but falling a little short. He wants this to be good for Derek, and Stiles suddenly, bizarrely wishes that there had been more opportunity for him to practice, to actually form a skill set instead of just flailing around like a blushing virgin.

Derek blinks in confusion, then he abruptly bends down to pull Stiles into a kiss. When they part, Stiles realizes that Derek is breathing kind of heavily, and there are beads of sweat on his temple and neck. God, Stiles wants to lick every part of him.

“That's _really_ not the issue, it feels amazing,” Derek says, his thumb stroking circles against the soft skin behind Stiles' ear. Stiles tries hard not to look smug at the praise, but then again he's never been one for false modesty.

“I kind of like it slow,” Derek says, like he's admitting to something incredibly embarrassing.

In Stiles' fantasies, imaginary Derek had been into all kinds of kinky, adventurous stuff, but it seems like real Derek's tastes are much more vanilla than Stiles thought. It's adorable.

As it turns out, what Derek really wants is the world's slowest blow job, with Stiles teasing and licking him and Derek shuddering and writhing beneath him. He's really well-behaved about the whole thing, too: Derek pets Stiles' head, runs his fingers over the side of his face, and doesn't try to force him into a rhythm or push up into Stiles' mouth. He even makes a point of tugging at Stiles' shirt when he's getting close, which is polite but also _super unnecessary, thank you very much._ Stiles is all in here and not pulling any punches.

It's an accidental hint of teeth against sensitive skin that finally takes Derek over the edge, and Stiles files away _that_ bit of information for further use even while he messily swallows around Derek’s cock, enjoying the way Derek's head falls back and his breath catches when he comes.

Derek hauls him up back into his lap after, unzips Stiles' pants and gets him off with a hand wrapped around his dick. Derek gives him long, sweet strokes that make Stiles thrust into his grip and clutch at the fabric of Derek’s shirt, and it is so good Stiles is a little worried he might accidentally lose consciousness or overheat or something.

“You're so hot,” Derek says against his neck, nuzzling Stiles’ skin. 

“Nnhg,” Stiles says and comes all over Derek's hand.

“Is this the part where the premature ejaculation pun comes in?” Derek asks, mock-innocent.

“I am never going down on you again,” Stiles declares, with feeling.

\--

Stiles wakes up with Derek’s body plastered against his back, sleep-warm and solid. He has an arm slung around Stiles’ waist and his breath tickles Stiles’ neck, and for a moment Stiles can’t breathe for the staggering intimacy of it. He lets himself relax for a few minutes before he starts to have visions of toast and eggs and bacon flash across his closed eyelids and can’t ignore the fact that he’s starving any longer. 

Stiles tries to extract himself without waking sleeping wolves, so to speak, but once he manages to move away a few inches, Derek makes a possessive sound in the back of his throat and tightens his arm around him, face buried against Stiles’ neck. 

“I am really into this whole morning spooning routine,” Stiles says. “But you eat, right? Breakfast? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you eat actual food. Hell, I see Scott eat actual food all the time, so it’s probably not some weird werewolf side-effect to never be hungry.”

Derek doesn’t reply, so Stiles makes another attempt to get up, trying to avoid the looming blood sugar crash. Derek shifts against him, and just when the feeling of his body pressed up against Stiles’ back is starting to give Stiles serious ideas, Derek murmurs: “Don’t go.”

His voice is all thick and slurred, and Stiles wiggles and squirms until he can turn around in Derek’s embrace and see his face. Derek’s eyes are closed, and he is blindly nuzzling Stiles’ throat. He mumbles something else, caught somewhere between consciousness and sleep, and Stiles has to lean in close to hear him.

_“Don’t leave me._ ”

Stiles abruptly feels like he got punched in the chest by an airbag. Derek’s face looks different like this, young and vulnerable, and suddenly Stiles wants to pull the blankets up to make sure that Derek is warm enough, to keep him safe. 

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles says softly, curling closer. He folds himself into the warm pocket between Derek’s body and the sheets and slides his arms around him. 

Derek relaxes a little, and after a while his breaths even out. He’s kind of heavy like this, when he’s not actively pushing himself up on his arms and trying not to crush Stiles beneath all the pounds of sculpted muscle, and Stiles’ arm is slowly falling asleep. It’s awkward and cramped and weirdly perfect. 

Stiles wonders if Derek is dreaming. He wonders if he will remember this, any of it. It feels a little like Stiles knows a secret now, like the sharp, jagged edges of a scar he wasn’t supposed to see. 

“I’m not leaving,” Stiles murmurs, pulling Derek as close as he can and brushing a kiss to his temple. “I’m not leaving you.”

–

_**Three.** _

**control;** verb: to keep within bounds, to restrain.

Stiles learns about Kate in increments. Derek isn't at his most vocal during sex, but it's always pretty clear when he's enjoying himself, so Stiles notices the moments when he tenses, when something passes over his face that isn't entirely pleasure. It's unpredictable, really – a certain kind of touch or a phrase Stiles uses or something that Stiles didn't pick up at all, and suddenly Derek is retreating into his own head like the lid of a box snapping shut. His breathing turns measured then, a rhythm like a mantra, and he smiles that _It's fine, it's not you, it's all good_ smile that Stiles thinks is worse than anything else, like what bothers Derek most isn't the fact that someone reached inside him and twisted, but the idea that Stiles might feel guilty about reminding him.

One night, they're curled up in Derek's bed with the sheets kicked away, all sticky and sweaty. Honestly, it should be kind of gross, but mostly Stiles is so happy that he doesn't care. Stiles' head is tucked comfortably under Derek's chin, and Derek runs his hand over Stiles' naked back like he's trying to learn him by feel, like he wants to know every part of him with his eyes closed.

Stiles is already half-asleep when he hears Derek's voice rumbling through his chest. “She told me I was ruined for anyone else,” Derek says. When Stiles blinks up at him, he is looking at some distant point on the ceiling. “That after what I'd done, nobody would ever put up with me again.”

_Jesus._ Stiles' first impulse is to contradict that, tell Derek what a load of awful crap it is, but Derek's thumb still traces lines on Stiles' skin like he's grounding himself, so he decides to just listen instead. Stiles has a bit of experience with getting trapped inside of your own head, he can relate.

“I could have said no,” Derek finally says, the words like signal fires in the darkness.

Stiles takes a shaky breath. He waits for a few heartbeats, _one, two, three._ “I had this really bad fight with my mom once? Like, shouting match and slamming doors bad.,” Stiles says. It helps that he doesn't have to see Derek's expression, he's not sure he could deal with it very well.

“I don't even know what it was about anymore, something I had fucked up at school probably because I couldn't sit still and always got distracted and she had annoyed teachers call up every other week, and she was always– “ 

Stiles swallows. His mouth is sandpaper dry. He has no idea what he's even doing apart from that it feels like the right thing, like Derek has opened up some hidden door with a bunch of locks on it and Stiles is saying, _yeah, I get it, I have some of these, too._

“She was always really patient, but that time she kind of lost her nerve and told me that I needed to try harder.” She wasn't even wrong, Stiles thinks. Sure, he was struggling with all the weirdness his brain threw at him, but sometimes he was using it as an excuse, too, when he was really tired of trying over and over just to be tripped up by his own, uncooperative head. “She said that it wouldn't work if I just gave up every time things got difficult, and that she knew I could do better. I was so angry at her, it felt like. It felt like she should be on my side and she wasn't, and I said to her _I really wish you'd leave me alone forever._ ”

Derek has turned his head; Stiles can feel his gaze on him in the darkness. Derek's hand is just resting between Stiles' shoulder blades now, completely still.

“So when she got the diagnosis– “ 

Stiles' voice isn't working right, so he closes his mouth. There's that weird pressure behind his eyes that he gets when he's about to cry. He blinks stubbornly and waits for it to go away. Derek is still breathing calmly beneath him. When Stiles puts his ear to his rib cage, he can hear Derek's heartbeat, like some hidden machine working in the cavity of his chest. 

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek says, impossibly soft. “It wasn't your fault.”

Stiles shrugs. “And what Kate did to you wasn't yours,” he says. _It's one thing to know this_ , Stiles thinks, _and another one to believe it._ “There’s nothing you did wrong. And you're not ruined, _you're not._ ”

There's a long silence in which Stiles considers all the ways in which he probably did the exact wrong thing and made it all about him by playing the dead parent card, and what does he know about personal tragedy from that one bad thingthat happened to him anyway. Derek doesn't say anything, so Stiles figures there probably is nothing more to say, and he should shut up and hope Derek won't remember this conversation in the morning. He closes his eyes and tries to go to sleep, to curl up in that faraway place where none of the darkness you see is real.

Then Derek shifts beneath him, and Stiles feels the touch of Derek's lips against his forehead, lightly, carefully, like Derek is not sure if he's allowed.

“It's okay,” Stiles says, blindly reaching for Derek's hand and holding on. “It's going to be okay.” It's probably not true at all, about anything, but he's close enough to drifting off that he can almost believe it.

\--

_**Four.** _

**control;** noun: skill in the use of a tool, instrument, technique, or artistic medium.

“Oh god, do you _have_ to do that?” Stiles wines, sitting in Derek's lap with his shirt half off, his arms all tangled up in the fabric, and Derek – shirtless, looking like a billboard advertisement for some kind of macho body wash, all sculpted abs and perfect hair – grins at him and says “Do what?” like he doesn't know exactly what Stiles is talking about.

“Look like that,” Stiles groans. His hips are moving against Derek's crotch, rubbing against the coarse material of his jeans, and fuck, Stiles isn't going to last for even five minutes, he's so turned on and Derek _literally_ looks like the stuff of his fantasies.

Derek grabs Stiles' shirt and pulls it over his head, then drops it somewhere next to the bed. “How do I look?” He asks, and up close Stiles can see how long and dark his lashes are, which shouldn't be so incredibly hot.

Stiles feels himself leaking into his boxers. Don't get him wrong, the sex has been _amazing._ His sex life has been a never ending wet dream for more than a week now, Stiles is _on board with this_ , he'd just really like to go for a round in the sheets without coming, like, ten minutes in. That would be great, and would also have the added benefit of not being incredibly embarrassing. Derek seems to like how excited he gets though, as if he takes some kind of perverse pride in making Stiles come in his pants.

“You look so fucking hot, I can't– “ 

Derek never lets him articulate what it is that he can't do, because he growls and honest-to-god flips Stiles so he's on his back. Then he pulls Stiles' pants and boxers down, and Stiles raises his hips enthusiastically because yeah, _yeah_ , whatever is coming next, getting blown or getting fucked, he is totally down. Instead, Derek nudges him until Stiles lies down on his stomach and then covers Stiles' body with his own, kissing the vertebrae of Stiles' spine. He starts at Stiles’ hairline and works his way down lower until Stiles shudders against the warmth of his mouth. 

“Does it help when you can't actually see me?” Derek asks, horribly smug, and grins into the skin between Stiles' shoulder blades.

“You're such a smartass, I don't even know why I like you,” Stiles tells the pillow. His cock is trapped between his stomach and the sheets, and he has to try really hard not to hump the bed to at least preserve a minimum of dignity.

“You like me?” Derek asks, and Stiles can feel a hint of teeth against his skin. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, suddenly not joking anymore. “Yeah, I like you. A lot.”

There is something else burning in his throat, an admission, but then the moment passes and Derek is kissing the small of his back, his palms spread over Stiles' hips. Stiles doesn't get where this is going at all until Derek cups his ass with his hands and says in this careful, low voice: “May I?”

He sounds like a freaking regency novel, and Stiles is about to tell him so when his mind catches up to what Derek is asking. Oh. _Oh._

“Yes,” Stiles says, “Yes yes please, go ahead, do it.”

Stiles thinks he can feel Derek smile against his skin again, except then Derek spreads his cheeks and puts his mouth on him and Stiles loses all higher brain functions for a while. He clutches at the sheets and makes little, broken noises he barely recognizes as his own voice, trying to push up against Derek's mouth, the wetness and warmth of him.

It feels _incredible,_ like Stiles is about to _die,_ and he comes at the first touch of Derek's tongue against his hole, hips twitching and spilling all over the sheets. Derek just keeps going after, kissing and licking him until Stiles is loose and slick and half mad with pleasure, then he turns him over and wraps a hand around his own cock. Derek looks so incredibly turned on that Stiles' breath catches in his throat.

“Here, let me,” Stiles says, and knocks off Derek's desperate grip on his own cock so he can jerk him off. Derek shudders and leans over him and rests his head against Stiles' shoulder while Stiles touches him.

“The _noises_ you made,” Derek says, wrecked by a full-body shudder. The thought that it was Stiles who got him so wound up is intoxicating. “Fuck, you don't even know– “ 

Derek takes a moment to pant against Stiles' shoulder, his hips pushing into Stiles' grip, greedy. 

“Don't even know what you're doing to me,” Derek says, and then groans and comes all over Stiles' hand and stomach.

\--

**Five.**

**control;** noun: the ability to keep within bounds; self-restraint.

“Hey,” Derek says, smiling in that way that makes Stiles knees actually weak, corny romance-novel style. “ _Breathe_.”

It’s a little ridiculous that Stiles has to be the one to be reminded not to freak out when it’s Derek spread out on his back, completely exposed, giving himself over to the mercy of someone with a history of walking straight into doors. 

Stiles squirts some more lube onto his fingers, drops the bottle, retrieves it from the mess of sheets, then drops it again. He decides to put it away and, in a moment of incredibly poor hand-eye-coordination, misses the nightstand by about three inches so the bottle clatters to the floor. 

“Nervous?” Derek asks, his smile showing too many teeth. _Jerk._

“I started having a panic attack the moment you said ‘Would you like to fuck me’ and still haven’t snapped out of it, thanks for asking,” Stiles says. 

Derek stretches, folding his hands behind his head in a way that he _knows_ makes his chest and stomach muscles look incredible. Stiles makes a meek noise, too turned on for sarcasm. 

“You don’t _have_ to,” Derek says, presenting himself on the bed in a completely unnecessary way, like a GQ photographer might jump out of the closet any minute. 

Stiles is very aware of how hot his boyfriend is, thank you very much, he doesn’t really need additional visual input. “Yeah, and I also don’t have to drive a Jeep or like, _breathe_ , but I’m kind of into it, thanks.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Did you just compare me to your car?”

“That’s the part of the sentence that you’re choosing to focus on?” 

If Derek has some kind of witty answer to that, it gets lost in the groan he makes when Stiles kneels between his legs and runs the lube-slick tip of his finger over his rim. 

“Oh, sorry, it’s gonna feel cold in a second, should have warned you,” Stiles says, decidedly not sorry at all.

Stiles leans down to brush a kiss over the head of Derek’s cock, resting hard and flushed against his stomach. It makes Derek’s hips jerk in a very satisfying way. Stiles takes his time stretching the muscle with his fingertip, pushing in. Occasionally he stops to kiss the soft, warm skin on the inside of Derek’s thighs or nuzzle his cock, which is dripping precome onto his stomach. 

“It’s probably a good thing I didn’t make any plans for the next few days, I had no idea you were going to do this at the top speed of an elderly sloth,” Derek says. 

Derek is twisting and moving his hips on the sheets, trying to push back against Stiles’ hand, and yeah, this is not how they’re gonna do this, no way. 

“Why don’t you use all your wolfish self-restraint to lie still for a minute,” Stiles says. 

“Why don’t you get on with it and fuck me,” Derek says sweetly, looking up at Stiles from under his lashes, and fuck, that is just plain unfair. 

The thing is, normally Stiles is up for banter, _especially_ sexy banter, pretty much any time of the day. He is super into the way _Derek_ seems to be super into getting fucked by Stiles, but there’s also another aspect to it, and in true Stilinski-fashion he manages to blurt it out instead of being sexy or suave about it. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stiles says. 

Derek’s smirk is gone in an instant, replaced by a complicated expression Stiles can’t read. “Stiles,” he says. Stiles is pretty sure nobody ever said his name like that, careful, reverent, like the answer to some really important question. 

“I can take it,” Derek says.

Well, that is not an alarming statement at all. “I don’t doubt that you have like, incredible levels of pain tolerance at this point, mostly because I was there for a few of the demonstrations. You asked me to chop off your arm that one time, in case you don’t remember,” Stiles says. He swallows. “It’s just that I ‘ve never done this before, I am not naturally talented at physical tasks as anyone who has ever met me in my entire life can attest to, and – no, let me finish – I just want this to be good for you.”

Before Stiles knows what’s happening, Derek sits up and hauls him close, and Stiles flails a little and tries not to get lube everywhere. Sexy and suave is super not happening today. 

Derek doesn’t seem to mind much, because all he does is kiss Stiles like he’s starved for it and then hides his face against Stiles’ neck. “ _You’re_ good for me,” Derek says.

The words make Stiles feel warm and tingly all over. Oh. Okay. 

Stiles lets Derek hug him a little longer before saying: “So, uh, do you still want me to– you know.”

He’s is pretty sure he’ll never get tired of the sound of Derek’s laugh for as long as he lives.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I really do.” 

\--

Stiles has spent some quality alone-time watching many different flavors of porn online, but exactly all of it pales in comparison to the noise Derek makes when Stiles pushes into him. The whole thing is absolute sensory overkill: the tight warmth around the head of Stiles’ cock, the way Derek’s muscles shift under his skin with every movement, the smell of clean sweat and sex. Stiles tries to concentrate on a bunch of decidedly unsexy things to take the edge off – clowns, soggy cereal, dentist’s appointments – but his mind refuses to process anything but the scene currently playing out in front of him. 

“Yeah, come on,” Derek says. He squeezes Stiles’ hips with his thighs, trying to draw him closer, and Stiles has to use a ridiculous amount of self-control to keep still. 

“I’ll get you there, just trust me,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. It’s incredibly tempting to give in and _thrust,_ but not only if he’s pretty sure that he’ll come the very moment he moves, he also doesn’t trust himself to go slow enough not to hurt Derek once he gives in. Which is kind of the thing he’s been trying to avoid all along, so.

Miraculously, Derek relaxes beneath him, and just lies there and pants at the ceiling instead. Stiles runs his hand over Derek’s hip in silent approval, and pushes in further.

“Oh,” Stiles says, the sound rushing out of him along with his breath. He moves slowly, carefully, watches Derek’s face for any twitch of discomfort. 

Suddenly, Derek tenses beneath him. Stiles stops moving instantly. The measured rhythm of Derek’s breathing is familiar to him now, and whatever mental barrier he has to break through apparently gives in after a moment, because his shoulders loosen and he looks up at Stiles with his face wide and open. “Go on, it’s _good_ , keep going.”

Stiles knows intimately how it feels to talk yourself down from a panic attack, and as much as he hates watching Derek’s expression flicker into something painful, even just for a moment, there is enough trust implied in letting Stiles _see_ , in choosing to continue anyway. Stiles lowers himself down and holds himself up with his hands flat against the mattress. The angle is a little worse this way, and he abruptly wishes he had spent more time working with weights in the gym, but it’s all pretty much worth it for the opportunity to kiss Derek, feel him wrap his arms around Stiles. 

“You feel so good,” Stiles blurts out, because his brain is apparently overloading with the effort to move slowly and also hold himself up and not coming accidentally. 

He expects Derek to roll his eyes at him and make some kind of quip about Stiles needing to improve his dirty talk, but instead Derek _arches_ beneath him like Stiles touched an electrical current inside of him. 

Stiles dimly remembers from physics class that data is only valid if it’s reproducible. “You make me feel amazing,” Stiles says, and Derek shudders. “Want you so much,” Stiles says, and Derek whines and lets his head fall back against the pillow, his eyelids fluttering like a moth’s wings. 

When Derek finally comes, Stiles isn’t sure what pushes him over the edge. Maybe it’s Stiles shifting his hips, his rhythm turning more urgent, or the way he keeps talking to Derek, low and intimate. _You’re doing so well. You feel incredible._ It might also be Stiles’ hand curled around Derek’s cock, stroking him in time with each thrust. The last part is kind of a huge achievement because Stiles has to hold himself up with one arm to do that: he’s really proud of that move. Another challenge is to not lose his mind while Derek is whimpering and clutching at his shoulders, saying _Stiles Stiles Stiles_ when he shakes apart beneath him. 

After that, it takes two or three more thrusts until it’s game over for Stiles, too, and he’s coming so hard he is genuinely afraid he might black out. He comes back to himself to realize that he collapsed on top of Derek and that the feeling of dried come and sweat on skin is starting to feel really gross really fast. Derek doesn’t seem to mind as much, because when Stiles pulls out with a wince and makes an attempt to get rid of the condom and get something to clean them up, he puts his hands on Stiles’ arms like he’s trying to keep him close.

“I’ll be back,” Stiles says, and kisses Derek’s shoulder.

Derek makes a displeased noise, but lets him go this time. Stiles gets a wet washcloth from the bathroom to take care of the worst mess and lets Derek pull him back down for quality post-coital snuggling after. As it turns out, Derek is even more handsy after getting fucked, nosing into the hollow of Stiles’ throat and touching him everywhere, and Stiles fits himself to the curve of Derek’s body and lets himself drift off to sleep.

\--

Stiles wakes up because there’s a werewolf humping his leg. Derek is plastered against his side, nose pressing behind Stiles’ ear. There’s a very real possibility that he is _sniffing_ Stiles. 

“You came like, three hours ago,” Stiles says, voice scratchy with sleep. 

It’s not like Stiles is complaining, really. Derek feels warm and solid and he’s hard against Stiles’ thigh, shifting his hips restlessly like he can’t contain himself, and it’s pretty much the hottest thing ever.

Derek tenses and moves back a few inches. “Sorry,” he says, which makes no sense. Stiles turns his head to see a self-deprecating smile on Derek’s face, the kind he uses to disguise actual hurt beneath. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I should have– “

“ _Dude,_ ” Stiles says, because he has a _degree_ in misjudging boundaries and coming on too strong, and this is absolutely not happening here, “You do realize that waking up in the middle of the night to a mostly naked Derek Hale wanting to make out with me is the stuff of my wildest fantasies, yes?”

Derek swallows, like he’s about to say something important and doesn’t quite know how. “You can still say no,” he says, his voice heartbreakingly soft. “You can always say no.”

Stiles throat is closing up with grief and shame, none of it his own. “I know that,” he says. “I know.”

Derek nods, and then Stiles pulls him down to kiss him. He says _yes, yes, yes_ against Derek’s lips, tugs at his shoulders until Derek rolls on top of him. Stiles runs his hands over every inch of bare skin he can reach because the starved look on Derek’s face is making his _heart hurt_. 

“You smell so good,” Derek says, nipping at Stiles’ earlobe. “Drives me crazy.”

“That’s such a weird wolf-thing though,” Stiles says, stroking patterns against the skin of Derek’s shoulders. “With the sniffing and the biting and the touching.”

“It’s not a wolf thing,” Derek says. He kisses Stiles’ chest, a line down his breastbone, right over his heart. “The touching. It’s a _you_ thing.”

Stiles traces his fingertips all the way up Derek’s spine, then lightly scratches his neck until Derek makes soft, pleased noises and melts against him. “It’s okay,” Stiles says. “I’ve got you.”

\-- fin 

 

 


End file.
